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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/30122337">only final kindnesses</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/starstriker/pseuds/starstriker'>starstriker</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Canonical Character Death, Fëanorian Week 2021, Gen, Heavy Angst, caranthir sweetie I'm SO sorry</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-03-18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-03-18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-16 02:01:01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>6,113</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/30122337</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/starstriker/pseuds/starstriker</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Fingolfin arrives in Beleriand only to find a much-diminished Fëanorian force, a nephew he’s never met, and a most unlikely High King. </p>
<p>(This time, it isn't Maglor.)</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Caranthir | Morifinwë &amp; Curufin | Curufinwë, Caranthir | Morifinwë &amp; Fingolfin | Nolofinwë, Caranthir | Morifinwë &amp; Maglor | Makalaurë</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>42</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>only final kindnesses</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Quenya names are used throughout, as usual I have them all written out at the bottom (also Word Replacer is a GODSEND if you don't want to memorize them/check them every five seconds, I've used it in other fandoms for the same reason). </p>
<p>Just in case you didn't catch the warning up top – this fic has both Major Character Death and Graphic Description of Violence. </p>
<p>Thanks for reading!!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>They come from the Helcaraxë bitter as its winds that had carried snow in its teeth. Even now, across the ice and with solid ground that does not creak or shudder, Nolofinwë can see his people stumble like it will still part beneath them. Certainly, the cold that has settled into their bones will take time to dispel fully – if it ever does. Most of all, apart from the lingering chill and their occasionally faltering steps, they are angry.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Nolofinwë is angry too, and somewhere under that he is still vulnerable enough to still be deeply hurt. Despite all the thought he’s (tried not to have) given it, he doesn’t know what he’s going to do when he sees his brother again – and he will, certainly. They’re recuperating for now, but it’s the calm before the storm that Nolofinwë has always associated with his brother. A few scouts report back in, confirming that the Feanorian host has settled on the other side of the lake. He thanks them, and tells no one – not yet. All of his children (save one, he thinks, for already there was further cause for grief) have their own reasons why they might go charging off, unheeding of his orders, to confront their cousins. Irissë is the most likely, he imagines, although there’s no telling how Findekáno may yet respond to Maitimo, and Turukáno… of all of his children, he and Turukáno are the most distant as of late, but Turukáno is distant from everyone save his daughter these days.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He tries to shake himself free of that particular lingering pain. Grim thoughts make for grim tidings. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Eventually, however, he must pick someone to come with him, and it is Findekáno he chooses because he has a look about him that suggests he will do something extraordinarily foolhardy if he isn’t permitted to go. Thankfully for him, Irissë appears too deep in her own anger at her cousins to try and trail them. He selects a few of his other most trusted advisors, ones unlikely to further aggravate Fëanáro if he is able to meet with him (he does not think, necessarily, that Fëanáro will not immediately send him away). </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The walk to the other side of the lake seems far too quiet. Findekáno is beside him, but he’s not in the mood for any conversation. Instead, his knuckles have paled as he clenches his hands close to his side. Nolofinwë does not think it wise to try and soothe him in this state – certainly, he himself does not particularly want to be soothed. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>They reach the Feanorian encampment, and it seems that they have been spotted from a ways off, for the guards outside watch them with an unmistakable wariness that Nolofinwë has more recently reserved for ice bears he sees in the distance. But they let him approach, and when he in a tone that sounds hollow even to him demands to see the High King, many of them look at him strangely. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>There must be a moment deliberation between them, before one that Nolofinwë thinks he might recognize as a young nís that was once often seen at Makalaurë nods, bows just stiffly and shallowly enough that it’s still the proper amount of Feanorian impoliteness. “I will take you to the High King,” she says. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Upon entering the encampment – for that is what it is, most certainly, not any sort of settlement – they all do their best to covertly sneak glances at their surroundings, and Findekáno’s mind reaches out to his. </span>
  <em>
    <span>There are not very many people outside, </span>
  </em>
  <span>he notes. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Where do you suppose they all are?</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>A very bitter part of Nolofinwe wishes to respond that perhaps they are all unable to face their guilt, but instead he simply sends back a quick confirmation, meant to indicate he’s wondering the same thing. And all bitterness aside, he is truly wondering – it seems strange how few people he sees, and everyone around is clearly busy. They are ushered through the streets quickly and with little fuss – perhaps Nolofinwe’s initial assessment is not so incorrect, considering how few people even look his way.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Eventually, they arrive at a large building, with just the faintest touch of his brother’s work that Nolofinwë still remembers. It’s not even in metal, but in the way the wood has been carved and worked. For his own sake, he chooses to ignore it.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I’ll see if he’s there,” their guide says cautiously, slipping in quick enough that he couldn’t hope to get a glimpse into the room beyond. They are left waiting for enough time as to become uncomfortable, and just as one of his advisors shifts her weight to her other foot the door opens again. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“You may enter,” she says again, with none of the tact nor flair of a trained attendant. It seems they really have received a guard to lead them to the High King, with little more thought given to them. Nolofinwë ignores the slight and thanks her quickly, before taking a brief moment to steady himself (as if it ever helped with Fëanáro) and entering. Right behind him is Findekáno, not eager to be left behind. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The room is dim, with many of the windows covered by thick curtains, so dim that for a moment he does think that the dark haired nér that stands behind the desk in the room is Fëanáro. He is wearing a crown, after all, and robes that are befitting of his station. But then Nolofinwë sees that while his hair is dark, it is too straight to be his brother’s, and not only that but Fëanáro has never born a crown with such visible discomfort in his posture, the stiffness in the nér’s shoulders betraying his profound distaste for the situation. And as he steps slightly into the light in the center of the room, he can see which of his brother’s sons it is – for those dark eyes and dour expression could only belong to one of them.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Morifinwë,” he asks. “Might I ask where your father is?” As soon as he’s said it, he doesn’t know why he’s even asked, even if he hasn’t accepted the sight yet. It is obvious, what has happened, isn’t it? By the way his advisors have all frozen out of the corner of his eyes, by the way Findekáno doesn’t even try to hide how the sight wounds him, clearly trying not to keel over in pain. It is only Nolofinwë, alone out of them all, who is stunned into foolishness. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>But it is neither Morifinwë, who seems like he might be trying to speak but can’t manage to summon any words, nor himself who breaks the silence. Instead, it is Findekáno. “Where is Maitimo?” says his son, his voice so low that it’s hard for even Nolofinwe, standing right next to him, to make out. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“He is dead.” The first words he hears any of his brother’s family speak after so long are thick with ill-hidden grief, but they are as blunt as Morifinwë’s words have ever been. Nor does he sound as if he wishes to say them, but Nolofinwë still can’t begin to process them. It is too close to learning of his father’s death, even seeing his body afterwards, when part of his mind shut down and refused to acknowledge the emotion of it until it was too late to not seem cold in his brother’s eyes. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Findekáno makes a strangled noise and visible recoils from his cousin. “No, he’s not!” he says, emphatically enough that it surely must be heard throughout the building. “He </span>
  <em>
    <span>can’t </span>
  </em>
  <span>be.” It seems that there is a little bit of innocence that Findekano meant to keep secret from them all on the ice, that survived it all when little else did – that when he came here, he would see Maitimo again, and while all would not be well between them at least it would be resolved. But instead he has a room devoid of all he once so clearly loved, and he has the eyes of a cornered animal.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>For some reason, he doesn’t reach out to stop Findekáno when he grits his teeth and shoves past him to flee from the room. Haven’t they all earned some sort of emotional outburst at this point? Nolofinwë’s not sure what’s happened to his, which he so often planned out on the ice. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He only says “I see,” and the voice doesn’t sound like his own. Certainly, it is not the right response, because it only makes Morifinwë look angrier than he did before, his poorly-hidden pain in his eyes sharpening into something more dangerous (his brother’s son indeed). But before anyone else can do anything rash, a door to the side of the room creaks open, and a small child – surely not more than fifteen – looks through the opening. That, of all things, makes Nolofinwe gasp and take a step back himself. Not because of the sudden intrusion, but because he looks so much like Fëanáro might have at the age that it feels as if he’s intruding upon some private part of his brother’s life that he was never meant to see. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Atya?” comes the tiny voice, as nervous gray eyes travel from Morifinwë to the assembled group of Nolofinweans. “I thought I heard someone.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>That seems to snap Morifinwë out of his stillness and relative silence, and he turns to face the boy. “Not</span>
  <em>
    <span> atya, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Tyelperinquar.” It’s a gentler tone than Nolofinwë’s ever heard him use, even with his youngest brothers.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The boy’s brows crease and he looks so sad and hurt that Nolofinwë has the irresponsible urge to run over and comfort him, like he might have in another age when one of his young nephews trip and skinned their knee, or fell from a tree branch. “Sorry, Uncle Moryo,” comes his response, and he nervously slips away, clearly not wishing to be so close to the strange elves that have disrupted his household. It seems impossible that one of his brother’s children might have a child of their own, despite the fact that he himself has a grandchild – even Arafinwë did, before the end! </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>At the very least, the boy’s appearance seemed to have jolted them all back into awareness, the ill silence that had settled in the room disappearing as Morifinwë comes back to life, circling behind his desk again. “I suppose you must want an explanation,” and surely it’s attempting to sound imperious but only manages to sound stilted. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Certainly,” he responds, and with the fog of shock over his mind rapidly disappearing he is beginning to feel his heart’s nervous flutter more and more. Morifinwë as High King is unthinkable, and surely must have an explanation besides the obvious. But then, they have already been told that Maitimo is dead (and he was surprised a little, how even after the devastation of betrayal they were dealt how much grief he feels at the thought of his eldest nephew, </span>
  <em>
    <span>dead). </span>
  </em>
  <span>Haven’t they already been taught that anyone can die, in these lands? Haven’t they already experienced it for themself? (Arakáno was so tall in life but his body felt so small in his father’s arms.)</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Then I should start with our arrival upon these shores,” said Morifinwë, but his face twisted as he said it. “Although, I am well aware that you already know the conclusion of this part of our time here…”</span>
</p>
<p> </p><hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>The Telerin swan ships that floated so innocently on the water had already been the subject of strife beyond imagining – though any blood that might have once stained them had since been washed away, by either the ocean or well-meaning Noldor, standing on their decks had always felt uncomfortable to Carnistir. It wasn’t just that he’d never been fond of sailing. But it was impossible to know if the place where he stood was the place where someone had been cut down, and it left him even more abrasive than usual. Not that he felt like what they had done was ultimately </span>
  </em>
  <span>wrong </span>
  <em>
    <span>of course, he forced himself to think. It was for a worthy cause. Námo was wrong. His father was right – he had to be, now more than ever.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>In comparison, the argument currently raging in front of them seemed less dire. But it was intense enough, between their father and Maitimo, that everyone had wisely paused – even Curvo, who normally would obey their father without question, had stopped in his tracks to watch and wait. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>After several painful moments, their father took an oddly aggressive step forward towards his wayward son, and the sudden movement made Maitimo freeze for just long enough – more in confusion than fear, for despite the twelve years they had spent with him none of them had grown accustomed to the version of Fëanáro that preferred to finish arguments with unspoken threats instead of words. Although Carnistir could see, in the dim torchlight, that Maitimo had quickly recovered and was already planning a rebuttal, their father cut him off before he could say another word.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“Let the ships burn!” he cried out, repeating what he had already told them with a new fire in his voice, a hint of mad laughter tingeing the command, and any doubts Carnistir had about his obedience quickly fled. Later, it would be viewed as the same sort of unified madness that had gripped them at Alqualonde, folly unimaginable, but in the moment it had felt the natural course of action. They had no use for traitors, he thought as the fires began to catch, no use for –</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Whatever justification that Carnistir might have crafted for himself was cut off by Ambarussa’s sudden cry, both shocked and pained. They turned to him, and saw then what they did not see before, which is the gaping emptiness beside him. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>By treason of kin unto kin, and the fear of treason, </span>
  <em>
    <span>echoed through his mind, as it had all once rung clearly in their ears. And so Carnistir lost the first of his brothers. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p><hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>When their father burned as if he meant for his death to be penance for Ambarussa, when Maitimo left and never returned, it was Makalaurë’s turn to be High King of the Noldor. During their youth, Carnistir had thought his second-eldest brother mostly unfit for politics, for though he was quite charismatic he had little of the way with words that Maitimo possessed outside of his songs, and spoke as freely and earnestly as Tyelkormo did on occasion (although unlike the latter he’d at least try to not say it directly in front of the subject of those words). </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>It was for this reason that Carnistir found himself surprised to be standing so staunchly by him during what he still insisted on calling his regency. No one corrected him – his younger brothers were sure not to let them – and they hung in the balance between dearly wishing that Maitimo was alive, and that he would return to them, and that he was dead and back </span>
  </em>
  <span>home. </span>
  <em>
    <span>None of them would ever say the final word, but it haunted them nonetheless. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Carnistir found out in those years that life did not stop because of the presence of death. And death was present, all throughout. Ambarussa still hardly spoke, Curvo of all people was off playing diplomat with the elves also lived near Lake Mithrim but no one except Tyelkormo seemed to know his exact whereabouts at any given time, and he refused to tell Makalaurë out of what seemed to be a growing rift between the two. Carnistir took note of it in the way that one might take note of the smell of smoke in their home. What their split was really about was what to do over the uncertainty of Maitimo’s fate, but Makalaurë refused to acknowledge that and Tyelko’s temper had risen to the point where he just wanted something to fight over. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>There was one moment that broke up the growing monotony of defending their new scraps of land and tentative hold on it – Curvo returned with little fanfare except Tyelkormo’s smug announcement with, of all things, an infant in his arms. If not for that fact that Carnistir remembered enough of his early childhood to remember what Curvo looked like when he was that young, and the unmistakable shine of pride in his little brother’s eyes, he might have been tempted to ask wherever he had taken one from.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Notably, there was no spouse trailing behind him when he arrived. Carnistir thought that Curvo had always meant to tell them about her – they did end up finding out that it was a wife that he had, and that she was some sort of leader that couldn’t bear to be parted from her people. All of them, privately, thought that their father would have been disappointed. Not about little Celebrimbor, or as Curufin translated to Quenya ‘Tyelperinquar’, but about the fact that he had such an untraditional marriage. No one told him this. He had surely thought the same thing but was happy despite it, the child was healthy, and there was no point to it but to be cruel. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Tyelpë was the light of Curvo’s life in those times. The light of all their lives really, in those days before the rising of the sun. Despite his mother, all of them knew that their father – the father that they had once known in the golden days of Valinor, not the fey creature he had ended his life as that none dared to speak of now – would have loved Tyelpë too. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>But not even the presence of their new nephew could entirely bring their family back together, not with so many pieces of it missing. Perhaps, had things been slightly different, Makalaurë would have been able to stand strong and refuse to let Tyelkormo and Ambarussa go on their fool’s mission to try and find any hint of what had happened to Maitimo. As things were, Carnistir only found out that they had left after the fact, when visiting a beleaguered Makalaurë that evening.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“I have let them go to their deaths,” he told Carnistir, his once golden voice long emptied of feeling. He couldn’t find a way to disagree, and they sat in silence for hours – perhaps hoping that if they could wait long enough, their brothers would come back in triumph, and they would both be proven terribly wrong. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>No one ever came back. What did come back was a message from the Moringotto – a bundle of red hair, too close to brown to be Maitimo’s. For days, they had no trace of what happened to Tyelkormo, and might have held out hope indefinitely, until Huan returned to camp and went straight to little Tyelpë, obeying only his former master’s beloved nephew for the rest of his days. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p><hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Makalaurë is not well. No – he hasn’t been </span>
  </em>
  <span>well </span>
  <em>
    <span>since Maitimo was taken from them, but the nér that now bears the crown is more silent and still than his brother ever was. Somehow, Carnistir of all people has found himself in the role of caretaker – Curvo is far too busy these days. He keeps Tyelpë closer to him at all times than Carnistir would normally think is healthy, but who is he to judge? He has no children, and the childhood they all experienced in Aman feels completely at odds with the one that Tyelpë must be having. Part of him, perhaps morbidly, wonders what it was like to grow up in the darkness like this. Not that Tyelpë’s situation is unique – generations of their kindred in Beleriand have grown up without the treelight – but Carnistir is so used to the glowing eyes of his kin that seeing eyes so much like his own, but without that light, is hard to handle.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>The Moringotto’s forces creep closer every day, and it is hard not to feel alone. The kin of Tyelpë’s mother have long moved from these lands, and while in their early days here he would have easily scorned them as craven, he now – if only internally, and never aloud – grudgingly sees why they were so quick to flee. On his worst days, he briefly entertains the possibility of another Beleriand, one where they hadn’t burnt the ships, and Tyelkormo would have been more easily reined in with the presence of Irissë. Or maybe Maitimo never would have left, reluctant to part from Findekáno as he so often had been in Aman –</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>These are the thoughts he hates the most. They serve no purpose, only making him grimace and scowl more frequently, lashing out at his two remaining brothers whenever they do deign to speak with him. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>When the attacks do creep ever closer to their settlement, they start to feel less and less prepared for each one. They are losing too many people, Carnistir thinks – for a while, it was not so, for each battle they had they learned new, crucial information about the enemy’s tricks and all his creatures. Now he has to wonder – is the knowledge lost faster than it is gained? </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>They are all tired. This time, Carnistir doesn’t mean just Makalaurë and Curvo, but everyone in the camp. Asides from Tyelpë, there aren’t many children too young to help with the day-to-day tasks themselves, which Makalaurë chooses to interpret as a good thing when they discuss it. It’s very practical of him, but the small part of Carnistir that isn’t devoted to making sure everyone has enough food and supplies (his skill at math finally put to good use) can’t help but wonder if the ebbing of hope might have something to do with it. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>For as long as possible, they cling onto what has become their new life. Without most of their family, with their people faltering, with no force large enough to even claim the vengeance they came here to seek, they hold on.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>And then, after what they will later know is years of this, an attack comes that they cannot ward off. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>The force is much larger than what they’re used to facing, which immediately alarms them, but the troubles don’t stop there. New poisoned arrows, ones they have no antidote for, rain down upon them and maims their defenses. Makalaurë fights much like their father once did, like Maitimo must have. When it becomes clear that swords alone will not protect them, he abandons his weapons entirely in favor of singing. For so long – longer than Carnistir had though his brother would be capable – it works, the power in his voice pushing the enemy’s creatures back. He sings of oaths fulfilled, jewels reclaimed, revenge taken, and arrows snap in their flight when they shoot towards him, spears landing far away from where he stands. It gives Carnistir and Curufinwë enough time to bolster their own defenses, the song imbuing their own people with a desperate hope. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>But it does not last. For a wretched howl competes with Makalaurë’s song, and from the back of the enemy’s forces comes a great wolf with the palest of silver fur, the color of which is familiar to Carnistir although he cannot immediately place it. It seems to resist some of the power of Makalaure’s song, prowling around the dome that he has cast around himself. His brother’s eyes are closed, although he must know that the wolf is there. Carnistir knows that if he lets his fear overtake him – no one is close enough to save him. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>They fire at the wolf, but its thick pelt must protect it from grevious wounds, and it is not dissuaded from lurking around Makalaurë. Nor can any of them get close enough to try and attack it head on – to lose a single person from their line would disrupt the entire defense at this point, and would render all of their king’s work useless in the process. As Carnistir frantically thinks through anything he can do to get the beast away from his brother, it growls again, and Makalaurë, seemingly startled by the sudden noise, opens his eyes.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>The wolf is right in front of him, close enough that its face is clearly visible. At the worst moment, Makalaurë’s song breaks as he gasps in – shock?</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>And then the wolf is upon him, and whatever emotion it was matters no longer.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p><hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>The two remaining sons of Fëanáro are slowly backed against the walls of their camp, the remaining members of their defense lines being slowly picked off by arrows, or the great wolf that now roams freely without Makalaurë’s song warding it off. In the back of his mind, Carnistir realizes that there is a very good chance that neither he nor Curvo will live past this battle, as both of them have begun to tire in their frantic defense. His brother’s motions as he fights are less swift, like he has to force himself to move with every swing of his sword. Blood is spattered across his armor, and slicks down his hair – Carnistir supposes that with so much of their facial features obscured by gore, the only way people can tell them apart is by height. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Hope comes a final time in the form of another howl – at first, the sound makes Carnistir want to despair, for the lone wolf that has been prying soldiers from their positions with its great paws and gruesome teeth is bad enough, and another would surely spell their doom. But it is not from the side of the enemy – rather, it comes from behind them, and is far more than the chilling sound that heralded the eventual doom of Makalaurë. Instead, from out of the camp bounds Huan, who strides through the ranks of the Noldor with ease to reach the wolf, tackling it away from another hapless soldier about to meet her end. Huan is much smaller than the wolf, but a cheer – sounding far too diminished and exhausted for it to be truly joyous – rings out from their own side as he manages to beat it back.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Still, his victory is not guaranteed. Carnistir would not be surprised if this massive creature was the prophesized ‘greatest wolf that ever lived’, from what he distantly remembered Tyelkormo’s boasting over Huan in happier days. “Stay here,” he ordered Curvo, who to his credit was for once obedient and nodded as he raced to Huan’s side. Unlike his brothers, he has been fighting with a spear all throughout the battle, allowing him to keep enemies – even if they are gargantuan wolves – at bay. If Huan fails here all will be lost. He cannot allow that to happen. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>The hound seems grateful for his assistance, for all the emotion he can read in his eyes, and they fall into a rhythm of the elf baiting the wolf so that Huan can get an opening to push him further back. It goes well, for a time, until he makes the same mistake that Makalaurë made and looks the beast in the eyes.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>He knows those eyes. They were some of the first he ever saw as a child, peering over into his cradle and framed by silver hair the same color as the wolf’s fur. “Tyelko?” he hears himself ask, just before he jerks his spear above his head to avoid being crushed between the wolf’s teeth.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>It can’t be – his brother would never turn against them. But there is no mistaking those eyes, too familiar to be in an animal’s face. Yet he knows that faltering would end him, like it ended Makalaurë, and in far too short a time he is forced to push aside the knowledge he has gained and continue the fight. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Finally, in one of the rounds of Carnistir baiting the wolf and Huan using that opening, they are both lucky, and Huan’s teeth closed around the throat of the wolf. The resulting sound sounds far too much like his brother’s own voice, like the terror he heard only once when Curvo was shot by a lucky mariner at Alqualondë, and he goes to cover his ears on instinct. The screech begins to fade away, and after a few seconds he hears the thunk of a massive body collapsing upon the earth. Huan’s muzzle is stained as red as his brother’s hair. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“It is done,” says the great hound, his head hung low in what must be his own form of grief. And he is right – the defeat of their greatest foe upon the field has sent the rest of the opposing army fleeing back to their fortress, as the battering Noldor raise their weapons and voice in victory. For what else can they do, even when they’ve lost so much? The rest of them will live, and that must be enough.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Huan and Carnistir turn towards the gates, where Curvo now waits for them. In his hands, their father and Maitimo and Makalaurë’s crown. He opens his mouth, as if to speak, but then shut it before simply handing it over. “It is yours now.”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>It will need cleaning, he thinks first, for the jewels and metal alike are marred by his brother’s blood. Curvo must have gone over and retrieved it himself – he can’t bear to ask where his brother’s remains are at the moment, but he will have to eventually. He doesn’t know what he’s meant to say – that was always Maitimo’s job, wasn’t it? He always knew just what to say to make someone feel better. And after him, it was Makalaurë who tried so hard to keep the peace.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“Thank you,” comes out instead. Curvo makes a grim expression that’s about as much like a smile as a corpse is like a person and bows. It wouldn’t be much cause for concern if not for the wince that came with it. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“Is everything alright?” he asks next, moving to offer support to his brother, but he’s gently brushed aside.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“Nothing serious,” Curvo says, straightening up and hiding rather poorly the grimace it causes. “I’ll be headed off to the healers soon, I suppose.” </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“I can go ahead and tell Tyelpë where you are,” he says, and he can feel his eyes narrowing in suspicion. Curvo must know it, because his smile grows like he’s trying to make sure it doesn’t tighten.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“No, no, Huan can go back well enough and make sure he gets to sleep. I’ll tell him myself in a little while, alright?”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>It’s a lie. It’s the worst sort of lie there is, where Carnistir knows that Curvo is lying but Curvo knows that Carnistir isn’t likely to call him out on it when there’s still so many people around. A knot forms in his throat, like it always would as a child when his brothers took their teasing too far. It’s not fair, that part of him still says. It’s not fair that Curvo lived through the whole battle, and is now planning to fade off to the Halls in his sleep, due to some wound he’s keeping hidden. It’s not fair that the look in his eyes, that useless apology written in them, means he’s planning on leaving Carnistir all alone.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“Fine then,” he musters at last, knowing that his voice must come out gruff. “Go to the healers.”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>They turn from each other. Carnistir wonders if there was something else he was supposed to say.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>When the healers break the news to him, they say that it wasn’t just the wound on his head, but one that helped to crush his ribs in. The last few hours of his life must have been excruciatingly painful, someone adds before they are quickly hushed. It’s amazing he could keep fighting at all. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>He tells Tyelpë that his father died in battle, and that it was very quick. It’s the only final kindness he knows how to give. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p><hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Morifinwë seemed exhausted by his own tale, and Nolofinwë could see now the dimming of his eyes, still shining with the light of the trees but greatly diminished by his grief that had only grown while he recounted it. There must be a part of his nephew that hated the concept of his uncle pitying him – though Nolofinwë did not. His mind has gone numb again, feeling almost weightless. It was a familiar feeling, but he knew that there was no way through it but onwards.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“And so you became High King, then.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes,” he said. “The sun rose for the first time sometime after I was crowned. And then you arrived.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Nolofinwë believed could read between the lines – the Feanorian camp was not what it once was, their forces still recovering from a devastating battle. But then, there were the fragile threads of hope. They had defended themselves, after all. They still had a king. There was, of course, the sun.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He tried to think quickly – it would be best, for everyone, if they could ally together. The Feanorians had knowledge they did not, and they had the people that the Feanorians now lacked. At least, in theory it would be best – none of his people would follow Morifinwë, nor could he ever ask them too. Not only was he a Feanorian, but it was so outside what they ever could have considered that he’d have just as much luck commanding them all to follow Tyelperinquar. Morifinwë, whose fearsome temper seemed less likely to spark as worn away by grief as it was, watched as Nolofinwë rose.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“There are no words I can offer you to make up for all you have lost,” he said, bowing as he did so. Perhaps it would irritate some of his advisors, but it was the best thing he could think to do in this situation. “Though you are not alone, now. If we wish to triumph against the work of the enemy, then surely we must work together, at some point or another.” He would leave it at that.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>But Morifinwë, not as trained in politics as his older brothers had once been, refused to leave words unspoken. “You will not follow me,” he said, his expression shifting.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“The one I once swore to follow is dead.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>For a moment, it looked as if Morifinwë would accept this, for he too had sworn to follow so many and now found himself alone as they had all been taken from him, one by one. But old pride, yet undefeated, flared up in his gaze, and Nolofinwë was quickly reminded that though he grieved he was still at least in part the same nephew he remembered from what seemed like so long ago. “Fine then! We have lasted for this long with no aid, and we will not come to cringe in your shadows and beg for your forgiveness.” From the set of his jaw, he was either very determined or about to cry. Nolofinwë could not tell which.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>If there would be no convincing him, then what else could he do? No, he had not expected a son of Fëanáro to yield, and was a fool to even ask for cooperation. But he had had to – for his own people’s sake, he reminded himself. “Then I can do nothing but wish you luck in your own battle against the enemy,” he said. “Thank you for your time – but I must bid you farewell.” How unaffected he must appear. But there would be no point in attempting to comfort Morifinwë, and he had since learned how to carry on in the face of loss. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>His trip here had accomplished nothing, in the end. As he retreated, he could see out of the corner of his eye how Morifinwë sank into himself. But it was not his sorrow to bear – not entirely, at least. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Where is Findekáno?” he asked aloud, cursing himself for not thinking of this earlier. His son had left in distress, and at the time he had not been able to track his movements. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“He likely returned to camp,” said one of his advisors. “He would not stray far.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>This was what Nolofinwë desperately wanted to believe. But his son was as noble as he was foolhardy, and there was so much that he could do, even in this short amount of time, that could put him in danger.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Yet he could do nothing. Not for the first time, Nolofinwë allowed the fear of his own powerlessness to overtake him – from the fates of his nephews, to his brother, to his people, to his own son (sons, if Findekáno did not return).</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I hope he has,” he heard himself say. And that was all he could do. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>(And the Fingon finds Maedhros and we're back up to 3/9 Feanorians but THAT'S out of the scope of this fic)</p>
<p>QUENYA NAMES/TERMS GUIDE:</p>
<p>nér - male elf<br/>nís - female elf<br/>atya - father</p>
<p>Fëanáro - Fëanor<br/>Nolofinwë - Fingolfin</p>
<p>Maitimo - Maedhros<br/>Makalaurë - Maglor<br/>Tyelko/Tyelkormo - Celegorm<br/>Moryo/Morifinwë/Carnistir - Caranthir<br/>Curvo/Curufinwë - Curufin<br/>Ambarussa - here refers to both Amrod and Amras<br/>Tyelpë/Tyelperinquar - Celebrimbor </p>
<p>Findekáno - Fingon<br/>Turukáno - Turgon<br/>Irissë - Aredhel<br/>Arakáno - Argon (he's not in the published Silm but additional son of Fingolfin)</p>
<p>Moringotto - Morgoth </p>
<p>As usual, I love kudoses/comments, and I really appreciate whenever anyone takes the time to leave the latter especially &lt;3 Thank you again for reading!!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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